


Buried

by crayonbreakygal



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Revenge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-06 07:22:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11595699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crayonbreakygal/pseuds/crayonbreakygal
Summary: "Don't you dare give up on me."  Sherlock and Mary set out to right a wrong. Takes place at the beginning of season four, then totally AU after that.





	1. What Can You Do

**Author's Note:**

> One, there are character deaths in this. Two, very rare pairing. Three, I think I'm a bit crazy to write this. It just came to me one day that I wanted to see what would happen if you threw Sherlock and Mary together, but in the most awful way possible. Well, this is what I came up with. I am playing with the medical terms and such, especially the timing on someone getting better from a significant trauma.

Buried

AU takes place during The Six Thatchers, after Rosie is born. Total alternate universe after that.

 

Chapter One—What Can You Do

“I can’t do this, Sherlock. Please don’t make me. Please.”

“You have to. For me. For them. Don’t leave, Mary. Please.”

Mary squeezed his hand tight, eyes drifting closed.  He’d bound the wound as tightly as he could, but it was all up to her now, whether she lived or died. He couldn’t lose someone else.  Please just stay.

 

One year before

“Are you sure?”

“What do you mean am I sure?  John Watson, when have you ever known me to not be sure?”

John looked at him strangely, then pointed back at him and smiled.

“You always miss something.  Like that time, with the hounds. You were convinced that there was a real hound, remember?”

“You thought there was.  I, on the other hand, knew exactly what was going on.”

John gripped his coffee tight as they entered the morgue.  Sherlock was a bit miffed that John hadn’t grabbed him a coffee on the way in, but there was always Molly to fix him one.

“Hello, Molly Hooper,” he said cheerily as he noticed the woman standing over a body.

“You’re late.”

Oh, Sherlock thought.  She looks quite angry with them, even more than a bit put out he’d say. He was learning more and more about her moods. And it was all John’s fault.

“John had to get coffee.”

John rolled his eyes as they both moved closer to the body that Molly had pulled for them to inspect.

“Mr. Harrison Quibley, aged fifty-five.  Blunt force trauma to the skull, I’d say the back of the head. If the first blow didn’t scramble his brain, I’d say the second or third must have done him in. It’s quite the mess back there.”

Before Molly could even say stop, Sherlock had rolled the body over right after he snapped on some gloves that were lying nearby.  Both he and John grimaced at the sight of the destroyed skull.

“Whoa. That had to hurt, a lot,” John pointed out as he turned around to not look at the body again.

“Cricket bat, I suspect.”

“No, not that.”

Sherlock scowled back at Molly, shaking his head no.

“No, I believe that these injuries were caused by a cricket bat.”

“I believe you’re wrong.”

John chuffed at Molly’s daring to say that Sherlock Holmes was wrong. Saying it out loud with an audience was even better, which made Sherlock even angrier.

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for Molly to tell him her answer.

“American baseball bat. The injuries are more consistent with a rounder bat, smaller. Plus, I found bits of wood embedded in his brain.”

John acted like he was going to vomit, looking down at his coffee as he did.

“Now that definitely spoiled my appetite.”

“Mary fix you sausages and eggs for breakfast?” Sherlock teased.

“Sherlock, seriously?” John jumped back.

“Although if you look at the back of that skull, it kind of looks like bits of sausage and eggs, don’t you think?”

Molly now rolled her eyes at him.

“Yes, thank you so much for that visual,” John told him as he walked away, looking a bit green around the gills so to speak.

“So, weapon of choice or chance?” Sherlock offered to Molly.

“I’d say weapon of chance. His wife is American. Baseball bat.”

“Cricket bat.”

“It’s a bat, you two,” John yelled from the door.

Secretly, Sherlock texted Lestrade to look for some kind of bat, but he wouldn’t tell Molly that. Wouldn’t want her head to get too big for getting it right. Only he could be right.

Racing over to the door, he noticed that John was still a bit green and possibly sweating too. 

“You alright?” Sherlock asked as he decided not to get too close to his best friend.

“Rosie wasn’t feeling all that well this morning.  Wonder if I’m getting a touch of what she has?”

“Just don’t sneeze on me,” Sherlock chided him.  

Instead of waiting for John to join him, he strode forward out of the morgue, which in turn probably saved his life. Not more than twenty paces ahead of John, Sherlock was thrown against the wall as the blast hit his back.  His Belstaff lessened the impact of debris, but he was buried for almost two days.  The basement was not the place to be unfortunately.

 


	2. Don't Tell Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock remembers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm claustrophobic, so this was so difficult to write. Warning--may be difficult for some to read.

Chapter Two—Don’t Tell Me

The hand that held his was soft and warm. Climbing out of whatever deep sleep he’d been in was challenging.  At first, he wondered if it was worth doing.  His leg felt like it had been torn in two, his back ached, more fingers than not just wouldn’t move.  He suspected they’d kept him under for a while just to heal. Keeping Sherlock Holmes down was a full time job.

He’d awoken here and there to medical personnel flitting around the room, but never long enough to talk much less even move whatever finger that wasn’t broken.

He gasped as his eyes opened finally, light pouring in to the room they’d put him.  He must have been in some kind of intensive care, but this room was private, not full of machinery to keep him alive.

Tipping his head just slightly, he saw the blonde curls lying next to his hand, the one that her hand had tried to wrap around. With his hand in some sort of splint, it was difficult for her to touch him. The two fingers that were undamaged were enough though. 

He couldn’t remember what had transpired.  One minute he was walking down the hall from the morgue, the next minute he was in this damned hospital bed, hooked up to beeping machines. Then it came back to him, what must have happened.

An explosion. The heat on his back. Flying through the air. Being trapped alive for days.  Screaming for John and for Molly. Hearing voices off in the distance, then nothing.

“John.  Molly,” he whispered.

His voice felt raw and exposed. The head that had lain down next to him moved, showing her face.  It was tired looking, haggard was probably the expression.

“Sherlock,” Mary cried. “Oh, Sherlock. Finally.”

“What happened?” he managed to get out.

“Don’t worry. Don’t you worry.  Just get better. You hear me,” Mary chided him, stroking her fingers over his face.

“John.  Molly,” he asked again, watching as her eyes teared up.

“It’s ok.  Just rest.”

“Have to save them,” he huffed out, pain starting to become unmanageable.

“You don’t worry. Just get better.”

“They’re still down there,” he said as he started to move his body.

“No, no. Don’t you dare move.”

He watched as she started to press a button by his bed.

“I have to save them,” he shouted, attempting to rip out the IV in his arm.

Mary tried to stop him. Stop HIM.  He had to move, had to find out where John and Molly were.

“Sherlock Holmes, you will stay where you are, do you hear me?”

“I can’t. We have to. Don’t tell me. No.”

A nurse and a doctor promptly came into the room before he could manage to even sit up much less stand up.

“Mr. Holmes. You have to rest,” the nurse said as the doctor took a needle to insert it into his IV line.

“Don’t drug me. I have to know.  Mary, get me out of here.”

“I can’t,” she said as she shook her head no.

His leg burned like fire, but his fingers were numb. Why were his fingers numb?

He watched as Mary, instead of coming back to his bedside, started to back away from his bed.  Tears streamed down her face, sobs escaping as gasps. She turned and ran for the door, wrenching it open.

“Mary,” he yelled after her, voice starting to return.

“John. Molly,” he yelled again, arms starting to feel like rubber.

Whatever drug the doctor had given him was taking affect, making him feel sleepy and lethargic.

“There you go, Mr. Holmes. You rest. Just rest,” the nurse cooed. 

 

Sherlock screamed. His leg was trapped under something, possibly a large piece of concrete too big for him to lift on his own.  Metal twisted and turned above his head, but didn’t reach it thankfully.  At least two fingers had to be broken, the rest scraped and raw. Reaching up to his head, he felt blood trickle off of it. His coat had protected a good portion of his body from the wreckage though.  For that, he was thankful. 

What on bloody earth had happened? One minute, he was talking to John about a body, the next minute the whole place was coming down around his ears. 

Oh god, John. And Molly.

“John,” he called out. “Molly, please answer me.”

“Sherlock,” he heard off in the distance.

“Molly?”

“It’s me. John. It’s John. I see him but I can’t get to him.”

Sherlock couldn’t see Molly, but he suspected that she was just outside the door to the morgue, which meant that John was between himself and her.

“Molly, I cannot move. My leg. It’s trapped under something.”

“It’s ok, Sherlock. It’s ok.”

“Can you see? Is he still alive?”

“I don’t know,” she cried out. “I can see his hand.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes.”

“Mobile?  Can you get to your mobile?”

Sherlock poked around his Belstaff, but couldn’t feel his.

“I’m pinned, Sherlock. Let me try.”

Sherlock held his breath as Molly looked for her mobile.

“I can’t find it,” she finally said, voice sounding a little frightened.

“It’s ok. They’ll know. They’ll know we’re down here.  Just keep talking to me, alright?”

Maybe they’d find them.  He had no idea how large the blast was or what caused it. It could be any number of things, especially in a hospital with flammable materials. Or it could have been on purpose.

“John’s not moving, Sherlock.”

“He’ll be alright. Just hang in there.”

Something shifted in the debris, making Molly cry out in pain.

“Molly, don’t move. Do you hear me? Don’t move.”

“I didn’t.”

He had to do something, anything to save her and John.

“We just, we have to be patient. Just hold on, for me.”

Silence. All Sherlock could hear was shifting building materials now.

“Molly. You talk to me. Do you hear me?”

Why had she stopped talking?  She sounded ok. What had changed?

“Hard to breathe,” he could hear her off in the distance.

“No, no, no.  You just sit tight. We’re going to get out of this, do you hear me?”

Sherlock twisted and turned, but the leg would not budge. Instead, he attempted to lift the slab off of the leg, hoping that if he could put enough leverage underneath it, he could slide the leg out.  It moved slightly, giving him enough time to shift it. Only once he did that, how would he get over to Molly and John? There was a mountain of debris between him and the two of them. And who knew if things would shift around when he did that?

“Molly, I got my leg out. Did you hear me?”

“Yes,” she replied faintly. “Are you bleeding?”

There she was, thinking about him instead of herself.

“No,” he lied to her.

“Liar,” she shot back.

He knew that the bone had separated, but nothing was poking through the skin so that was a plus.

“You can’t reach John?”

“No,” she cried. “He’s buried.”

His friend could not be dead. John Watson had survived Afghanistan, Sherlock’s idiocies and Mary’s punches.  He had to survive this.

“Maybe I can make it over.”

As slowly as he could, Sherlock crawled through the debris. There was little room for error since there was basically little room for him to maneuver.  Finally, after over an hour (or possibly more) of poking through pieces of drywall, metal and other twisted things, he could see what looked like was Molly, or her hair.

“I think I can see your hair.  Molly?  Molly? Answer me.”

Before she could say anything, more material shifted, drawing out another cry from her. After what seemed like forever, he managed to make it to where she was. That was when he figured out that she was indeed trapped underneath something very heavy. How on earth could he get that off of her before it crushed her?

“Maybe if I dug you out?  If I can wedge something to hold it. Just, just hold on. I’ll figure this out.”

She didn’t acknowledge his presence, but he could see her fingers flex, so she was still alive.

“Please, just hold on.”

In what seemed like forever, he finally devised something to wedge underneath the slab that threatened to crush her, then to dig her out enough so that she could make it out before it fell. His hands and fingers bled after digging, but he managed it. Pulling and pushing, Molly was finally free, but as he gave that last effort, the slab came crashing down, shifting the debris yet again.  If the rescuers hadn’t heard him scream before, they most certainly had to have heard that one.  All the fingers on that one hand were broken now, in multiple places.

But Molly was free. The pocket they were in had oxygen, for the moment. He really didn’t know how long it would last. He must have passed out from the pain because when he came to, he felt fingers carding through his hair.

“Sherlock?” Molly whispered to him.

“I’m here. John? Where’d you see him?”

“So cold. I’m so cold.”

Shock. She must be in shock. Blood loss. Dammit. No. This would not happen.

“Molly, I need to figure out if you’re bleeding. You’re going into shock.”

“I love you. Always have. Just wanted you to know,” she slurred out.

“Ok, so you can tell me again once we get out of here. Just stay with me. I need your help with John. Can you do that for me?”

“No, Sherlock,” Molly said as she reached for his face. “He was on the other side of me. Can’t reach him. No pulse. I tried.”

“No.  We have to dig. We can get him out.”

Even with the dust and debris coating her, Sherlock saw how absolutely wonderful his Molly Hooper was. He couldn’t lose her now. Not now.

“We are going to wait here and be rescued. And they’ll find John and he’ll be alright.”

He had to reassure his pathologist that they were going to get out of this alive and intact.  As gently as he could, he kissed her, tasting dust and salt from her tears, or were they his?

“Didn’t think you could do that?” she joked.

“What? Kiss?  Just you wait and see.  I can do all sorts of things. Just stay with me. I love you, Molly Hooper. Just stay with me.”

As he curled his body around hers to keep it warm, he wondered what he was going to do.  There was no way to get them out of there.  He just hoped the rescuers would find them in time.


	3. Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is finally coherent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One--I had a hard time remembering the bones in the hand. I took Human Osteology. A long time ago though. Probably means I got it wrong. Oh well. Two--The timeline is a bitch too. I rewrote this chapter so many times fixing it, so I hope I didn't screw it up majorly. Three--It's been two weeks since the incident. I had to give Sherlock time to be coherent. Four--A little shoutout to Dr. Strange in this. I don't want to spoil just in case you've never seen it. Lastly--I'm thinking that Rosie is approximately a year old in my fic at this time. That's just my take on it. So Mary didn't die in The Six Thatchers, but some of what transpired on the show did happen, particularly Eurus. Work with me here. I'll explain later.

Chapter Three—Escape

“No, find Molly.  Take her first,” Sherlock yelled out in his sleep.

Mary had curled up in the chair beside his bed, hoping that he’d come out of it once again.  He’d been in and out of consciousness for days, at times screaming for either Molly or John, or whispering for them to hold on. Mycroft had relieved her on occasion to nurse Rosie, but he was too busy trying to find out what had happened.

“Bomb. Conveniently placed on the second floor. Remotely detonated.  They never stood a chance,” had been Mycroft’s announcement to her, two weeks after the disaster.

It had taken the rescue crews two days to get to the basement level.  Forty-three people dead, scores wounded, ten people missing, presumed dead. 

“Who?” was Mary’s simple question.

“Could have been any number of people.  At least two terror organizations are claiming responsibility. The press knows Sherlock was there.”

“Which means whoever did this will know he will stop at nothing…” Mary choked out.

Mary’s anger seethed just below the surface. It wouldn’t do her any good to blow up at Sherlock’s older brother right then. Maybe later, once she had time to figure out what had occurred in the last few weeks, she could process everything that had happened.

“They still haven’t been able to retrieve the body just yet.”

Mary still stared straight ahead, willing the tears away.

“Rosie has been put under heavy guard. I can assure you I will do everything possible.”

“It won’t be enough,” Mary replied, voice cool and calm. “Make her disappear. Take her and make her disappear.”

“But she’s your daughter. Anthea assures me.”

Mary then looked at Mycroft, making him flinch.

“Make her disappear. Along with Anthea, your parents, Mrs. Hudson. Because when I’m done with whoever did this, I will scorch the earth leaving no trace of them.  Until then, they will keep coming. Make them disappear.”

The look on her determined face had Mycroft moving as quickly as he ever did. Not more than ten minutes later, he put his phone back into his pocket.

“It’s done.”

“You too. I mean it, Mycroft.”

“But Sherlock. Not until he wakes up.”

“I can’t watch you both.”

“I understand,” Mycroft said, unwittingly showing her his sidearm.

Mary turned to go back into Sherlock’s room, waiting for him to wake up.

“I am sorry, Mary.”

“So am I.  I am not going to let John and Molly die in vain. No mercy.”

“No mercy.”

 

Less than a day later, Sherlock shook awake as he gasped in pain from his hand.  Funny how the leg wasn’t in as much pain now, but the hand was. Must be the bones attempting to knit back together.  The leg had been set in some kind of surgery as was the hand, but the bones in the hand were tiny compared to the femur that was broken.  Or maybe they’d been crushed?  Was it lucky it was his left hand instead of his right? Only two of those had been broken on the right.  Six broken fingers. Two on the right, four on the left. The pinky finger had been spared on the left.  Of course, there were more than just six bones in those fingers. In his mind, he tried to go through each bone, the name, the position.

“You broke all the distal, middle and proximal phalanges of four of the fingers plus two metacarpals. Two of the distals were actually crushed, so they had to amputate down to the knuckle region. Your thumb was salvageable, which is good. On the right hand, those breaks were not so bad and will heal nicely.  The leg, you were lucky.  Only a fracture. Concussion. Par for the course.  A building fell down around your ears.  Maybe that Belstaff has it merits.”

Sherlock flinched away from Mary’s cold assessment. He hadn’t even known that they’d taken part of his fingers.

“Where are they?” Sherlock finally croaked out as he looked at Mary in the chair across the room.

“Now, physical therapy will take a while on that leg, but you should be up and around in say, six months.”

“Where are they?” Sherlock said, much louder than before.

No one would tell him what happened and where Molly and John were. They all kept mum, turning away when he asked.

“Dead?”

“Hmm?”

Oh god, was she now crazy?

“Are they dead?”

“As I said before, a fucking building came down around your fucking ears. Didn’t you hear me before?”

Sherlock’s breathing became short. No way were they dead. She was lying to him.

“Molly wasn’t dead. Do you hear me? She was not dead.”

Mary got up from her seat and placed her hands on the foot of his bed.

“And John?  Hmm?  It’s been over two weeks now and they still haven’t retrieved his body.”

“No,” Sherlock cried out.

“My daughter is gone. I don’t know where. I have no husband, Sherlock. He’s just gone. Why?”

“I have no idea.  Molly? Where’s Molly?”

“She’s dead,” Mary screamed at him. “I need you to focus Sherlock. Who would have done this?”

“I don’t know. I have no idea.  Why? Why do you need to know?”

Sherlock could see the look in her eyes. Sure, he knew she was deadly and had used it to his advantage several times. He’d almost died because she was a killer.

“How many weapons do you have on you right now?”

Sherlock shuddered, hoping that she could get them out of there alive. Thank goodness his eyesight was as good as ever.

“Why? Think I’m gonna do something crazy?” she asked.

“No. Because in about five minutes we are going to have to fight our way out of here.”

“What?”

“Less than five minutes.”

“How?”

Mary closed the blinds fast and locked the door to the room.

“Flash from the window.  Reflection showed a shooter.”

Mary unlocked the door and peeked out quickly, not encountering any resistance. The guards that had been placed at the door were gone. Throwing Sherlock a weapon, it landed right beside his hurt hand. He thanked Mycroft for him insisting on the training of both hands to handle a weapon. Three fingers on the right would have to do.  Before getting out of bed, he texted Mycroft the number 23, then threw it over into the corner. Mycroft was on his own now.

Mary pushed the door open with a wheelchair at the ready. It took two tries, but Sherlock managed to get himself into it. He was so damn lucky all the lines had been taken out a few days prior. It would suck if that catheter had still been in place.  Mary had also stolen a doctor’s lab coat and stethoscope. The blanket around Sherlock covered most of him in addition to the ball cap placed on his head.  He would thank the gods (the ones he never believed in) later that they had mostly shaved his head to stitch the head wound he’d had since that eliminated his signature curls. One surgical cap on Mary and they were good to go.

It wasn’t until they made it down to the staff entrance that they encountered resistance. Two well placed bullets later and they were off.

“Ambulance?”

“I was improvising,” Mary declared as she gunned it around a corner.

“We should ditch it.”

“Any ideas?” Mary asked as she drove it through traffic.

“No. Not really. Hope that you have some clothes.”

“Unfortunately not.  Your ass is going to have to hang out a little while longer.

So no clothes, minimal weapons, riding around in an ambulance, which made them stand out like a sore thumb. Not the best of plans.

Once they found a place to ditch the ambulance, they were off. Unfortunately they needed the wheelchair since Sherlock could not use crutches at that moment.  Damn hands. It didn’t take long for him to notice one of his homeless network.  They’d be safe for the time being. But someone would notice a guy in a wheelchair. Someone would notice.

“We need to get out of the city. Now.”

“I agree,” Mary concurred, looking around every corner for danger.

“Pick a car. Any car and let’s get the hell out of here.”

“We shouldn’t go far though.”

“I know just the place.”


	4. Someone Coming After You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Mary find a bolt hole.

Chapter Four—Someone Coming After You

Under cover of night, Mary managed to get Sherlock to one of his bolt holes. It was the same bolt hole where she found him just before going on the run from Ajay.  No cameras around meant they could stay for at least a little while before they’d have to move on.  There was no way Sherlock could travel in his condition.  It would take time, but she needed it to arrange a better alternative.  For now, it would have to do.

Her chest hurt, literally hurt from not nursing. Was she lucky that Rosie was not nursing as much?  Three or four times a day. Now, nothing.

“You’re injured,” Sherlock commented as she settled him onto the makeshift bed.

“No. Just, no.  I need time.”

“Just tell me what happened,” Sherlock urged her.

“Just wait,” she cried.

Not only had she lost her husband, now she had to deal with the fact that she left her only child with someone who didn’t know her and had to keep her safe.  She would have been in more danger with her mother though.  Mary hoped that Anthea was as good as Mycroft had told her.

Pulling her top up, she managed to express some milk to ease the hardness that had developed from not nursing for almost a day.  Immediate relief flooded through her brain.

“Mary, are you alright?” she heard Sherlock call.

“Yes, just. I’m alright.  I haven’t nursed. Fuck, this hurts.”

“Rosie? Where is she?”

“Anthea. Mycroft took her. She’s safe.”

That was what Mary had to believe.  She’s just a baby. She’d never nurse her child again, nor would she probably ever see her.  Going down this road meant Mary jumping into hell, probably dragging Sherlock down with her. Not like he wouldn’t jump too.

“I’m sorry. It must hurt.  I mean, I don’t know how much it hurts. Please tell me you grabbed some drugs because this fucking hurts.”

Sherlock’s growl of pain startled her into action.  At least both breasts weren’t solid lumps. Pulling her shirt down, she rummaged through the bag she’d brought with her.  A drug smorgasbord.  Anything they’d need or could possibly trade.  She found the drug she needed and gave Sherlock something for the pain.

After getting Sherlock settled, she pulled out a burner phone from her pocket and started dialing.  There had to be a solution to their problem. Sherlock needed medical help in addition a place to stay.  Where they were was not a solution.

“Mary, I need the computer,” Sherlock called out to her as she typed away on the phone.

“You need to rest.”

“I need to find out if my brother is still alive. Please, Mary.”

“Do not, under any circumstances, tell him where we are.”

“Not a chance.”

Even though there was a sheen of sweat across Sherlock’s brow, she knew he was with her in the land of the living, instead of drugged out of his gourd like he had been the past few weeks. Helping him sit up, she placed a few pillows behind his back. At least the linens looked half way clean.

“I’ve slept here before. It’s semi-clean if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Infection.”

“I understand.”  And he started to type away with three fingers, very slowly. 

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock sighed and pushed the laptop away.

“Everyone else is safe, for now.”

Mary breathed a sigh of relief.

“At least two factions of terrorists have taken credit for the bombing. Mycroft has no idea.  Nothing. It could have been anybody.”

“Someone coming after you?” Mary finally asked.

“Someone coming after you?” Sherlock countered.

“I wasn’t in the hospital.”

“Right.”

He waited a beat, then pulled the laptop close again. Scrolling through, she could tell when he saw it. His eyes widened, but no tears formed.

“Have you identified the bodies yet?”

Mary’s head snapped up and looked directly in Sherlock’s eyes.

“Identified the bodies? They haven’t found him yet,” she growled back. “I was too busy making sure you stayed alive.”

“Molly was there. I have to find out.”

“Mycroft didn’t say anything,” she told him as she moved closer.

Feeling his forehead, she hoped that he didn’t develop an infection from all their travels.

“She was there. Right beside me. I dug her out. She was so cold.”

She could tell he was distressed, but what could she do?

“And John?”

“He was… I couldn’t get to him. Too much debris. It took hours to get Molly out.  My hand was crushed. I should have kept digging.”

Asking him more questions didn’t do Sherlock any good. Mary already knew the answers. Her husband had been buried in a blast that took out several floors of St. Barts.

“If the blast occurred several floor above us, then there could have been a pocket of air, something that could have saved him. They need to look closer.”

“Sherlock, it’s been two weeks. It took two days to get you out. The building is not stable and in fact almost crushed the crew who pulled you out.”

He’d lost a lot of time, she realized. He had no idea what had happened as he tried to come out of his own trauma.

“But she was right beside me,” Sherlock cried out. “I saved her.  John was so close.”

Collapsing against her, he sobbed, probably from being in so much pain in addition to losing two of his best friends.

“I got you. It’s alright. It’s alright,” she said as she stroked his hair.


	5. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Mary arrive at her safe house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scars, lots and lots of them. Some of them I made up, some we know from canon.

Chapter Five—Scars

It took nearly a week to find transportation and a safe house, but Mary managed it.  The dark wig covered her hair, so cameras would have a harder time picking her up if she passed one by.  Deciding to stick to rural back roads, it took more time than she had wanted getting to her safe house.

“Where are we?” Sherlock asked as he awoke from his nap.

“Outside of Blackpool.”

Sherlock groaned as he tried to move his hands. Mary had him make sure he kept them covered just in case they were seen.  Someone would remember a man with injured hands.

“More meds?”

“No.  Just hurts to move.”

“We’re almost there.  Just hold on.”

Sherlock’s dark chuckle had her glancing to her left. 

“Hold on? Yes. Just what we need to do.”

“I need you here, now.  We have to keep our wits about us until I can figure out what happened.”

“If it were terrorists, then why go after us?  Why would they give one shit about us?”

“Someone knew you were injured, decided to take you out when you’re at your worst.”

Sherlock’s leg twitched just a bit as he repositioned it.

“Mycroft was scared, Mary. When have you ever seen Mycroft scared?”

“Never.  Well, Eurus. But she scared the shit out of me too.”

Later, after they arrived at the safe house, Mary pointed him toward the bathroom.

“I’ll need to check the stitches in that leg, see if you can actually get cleaned up. You stink.”

“I’ve smelled worse.”

“Well, I have not.”

She had, but she wouldn’t remind him of her past. 

It had been almost a month. Everything was still raw, no John, no Rosie, being cooped up with Sherlock as her only companion. Getting down to his shorts, Mary looked at the surgical scar on Sherlock’s leg, deemed it healed enough to submerge into water.

“My hands,” he reminded her.

Mary closed her eyes, knowing she’d have to help him bathe. Shit show, dammit. This was such a shit show. As gently as she could, she pulled the splints off his fingers, checking for any infection or issues.  She’d done this now many times. Whoever had worked on him had done an excellent job. No more playing the violin, but if he worked at it, he could use both hands. He shook as he tried to flex the fingers.

“Doesn’t look real.”

Yes, the man’s body did not look real.  Scar, large bullet wound, on his chest, caused by her.  Leg, large scars, yes scars, where they went in to repair the break.  Fingers, tiny scars up and down most of them.  Scar, shoulder, bullet wound, went through and through, which means she’d find the exit wound on his back.  Back, many crisscrossing scars from being whipped.  Knife wound, the other leg, must have been deep from what she could surmise.  Several smaller scars on his forearms. From shooting up?  Could have been.  Must have been desperate at one time to not hide it on his body.  Small scar, lower lip, barely visible unless you look.  Surely he could have gotten a better stitcher.  It definitely would not have been John. He was much better at it.

“Wanna compare scars?” Sherlock joked as he sat on the closed toilet lid.

“You win, Sherlock. You most definitely win that competition.”

Mary remembered the feel of John’s scars underneath her hands. The one on his shoulder that brought him down in war. Would he have been recognizable if they had dug him out before he decomposed? Would she have identified the body? 

“I can stand.”

Sherlock meant to go this alone.

“In a slippery tub? I don’t think so.”

After running the bath water, she helped Sherlock to his feet, tugged off his shorts and directed him into the hot water.  He’d lost more weight from his mostly liquid diet in the hospital.  She’d made him eat when she did, but he had to make up for the loss of muscle mass in his leg. 

The first time she saw him, in that restaurant, was a jolt. He had shaped John’s life in more ways than she had realized.  Sherlock was so imposing in real life. The one on the pages of John’s blog seemed almost godlike, like he was ten feet tall.  At around six feet and mostly legs anyway, he wasn’t even that large of a man. She’d taken down larger with no sweat.  Only Sherlock was a cagey son of a bitch, probably fast and always, always thinking. John probably weighed just as much as Sherlock, even though Sherlock had a half a foot more in height.  While John had the hands of a boxer, thick and short, Sherlock had the hands of a pianist, fingers long and thin.  And of course, he played the violin instead, for hours at a time.  His feet were grossly large, almost clown-like, where John’s feet were more normal sized for a man of his height. 

Dammit, that hair. It had started to grow in, but it didn’t seem like the same Sherlock without the curls. He’d kept it a bit shorter in the last year or so, but the curls were still amazing.  The years were starting to catch up with Sherlock, his forehead now creased just slightly, one in between his eyes (maybe another scar), small lines to the sides of his mouth, indicating years that were earned.  Was he forty yet?  She’d lost track of time. John was older by a few years, she was younger by a few years than Sherlock. Her body felt ancient, used.

Parting Sherlock’s hair, she traced down the now scar where they had to stitch it back together after pulling him out.  Once his hair grew back in naturally, it probably wouldn’t be noticeable.

“Will I live?”

“You’ve been knocked on the head so many times, Sherlock Holmes. Still no sense though. That’s terminal.”

Not surprisingly, he was not modest about his nudity. No covering of vital parts, no smirks, no shy looks. John sometimes couldn’t even get dressed in the bright daylight when she walked into the room with him completely naked. Sherlock would probably walk around starkers and not bat an eye.

Sherlock stared at what was left of three of his fingers.

“I can help. With those. I can’t get you the range of motion you had before, but it’ll be enough.”

“Enough to what?” he said, voice low and menacing.

She rinsed his hair and started in on his back and shoulders.

“Revenge. Pure and simple.”

“We have to be sure.”

“We will be.”

Turning his head, he looked into her eyes. If looks could kill, Sherlock perfected it in that one stare.

 


	6. Mary Pushes Sherlock In More Ways Than One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After so many months cooped up and recuperating, both Mary and Sherlock are at their limits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is probably why it earns the M rating, so just warning you.

Chapter Six—Mary Pushes Sherlock in More Ways Than One

They settled into a routine of eating, sleep, and recovering, all in the same order every day.  It was Sherlock’s luck that Mary actually did know something about nursing and recovering from horrid injuries.  Learning to reuse the leg again was giving him fits, in addition to three fingers not being useful. 

“This is what you need to do,” she reminded him one day while he sat in front of her and refused to budge.

“Maybe I don’t want to.”

“Quit being a baby.”

Sherlock instead threw a pillow at her, wrenched the door open and as fast as he could limp, slowly walked out into the foggy morning.

The small house on the edge of the cliff tried his patience like no other.  There was no contact with the outside world other than the laptop they had at their disposal.  No one knew they were there. No one visited. They were most definitely off the grid.  Sherlock spent his days searching, prodding, poking, assessing while Mary trained. Trained for what, Sherlock did not know.  It could be another year before he had full use of his limbs. She still trained.

The crashing below of waves brought him out of his melancholy.  Almost ten months of waiting, watching, scheming. It was taking a toll on his mind and body.  He needed something else. He wasn’t getting anywhere with his research.

“You need to run,” Mary announced behind him.

“Fuck off.”

“My, my, aren’t you in a good mood this morning.”

“Still stands.”

“Suit yourself.  But all your planning and scheming will not work if you cannot move.”

Instead of glaring at him or yelling at him, she slapped him on the ass and ran off for her morning exercise.

“What on earth was that for?” he yelled back.

“Get your ass in gear.”

By the end of the week, he could walk the cliffs without much effort.  By the end of the month, he could actually run them.  Not as fast as Mary could, but he was coming along. She even had him lifting weights to make sure the leg would be just as strong as before. It was the hand that was giving him fits.

“You can work around it,” she instructed as she showed him how to grip a stick.

“It won’t work.”

“You haven’t tried.  When you tried with the leg, it got easier, right?”

Sherlock closed his eyes and tipped his head back, breathing in the fresh air.  It was turning colder, but he didn’t mind.  It cleared his mind to be outside. Being cooped up in that cottage was driving him batty.

“That’s because I still have an actual leg.”

They’d begun practicing with the large sticks a few weeks before.  He knew she hoped he’d become better with them, help him with strength and grip. It wasn’t working. In his mind, it did not work. He watched as she twirled it in her hands, positioning it to strike.

It took three moves and one sweep across the backs of his knees to bring him down to the ground, hard.  She stood above him, stick at his neck.

“Now you don’t have an actual neck.”

Frustration levels between the both of them were getting to a crucial tipping point.  He couldn’t match her fighting skills. She couldn’t match his intellectual skills.

“I would like to keep said neck intact, if you don’t mind.”

“If we are going out there again, you will need this to survive.”

“Maybe I don’t want to survive.”

Mary drew up short, stick over and to the side.

“What?” Mary asked.

“This, whatever it is we are doing, is a suicide mission.”

Mary dropped the stick and took off at a good clip down the cliff to the beach down below. It took Sherlock a lot of effort, but he finally caught up with her as she was knee deep in the cold water.

“Mary, you have to understand.”

“What? Understand that I don’t want to die.  I want to see my daughter again. You bastard.”

Her punch took him down into the surf, cold water seeping into his clothes. Another well placed kick had him down before he could get all the way up again.  Soon, she’d gotten in at least five good shots to his body, with him swallowing a good bit of sea water for good measure.

“You don’t tell me when I intend to die,” she yelled back at him as she wrenched his head out of the water. “Don’t you dare give up on me.”

Pushing her away, he scrambled back up the steep steps to the cottage, to get away from her wrath.  They’d circled around one another for months, arguing, cajoling, growling. This was the culmination of all the hurt and anger that the both of them felt about the no win situation they had gotten themselves into by training to take down whoever had done this.

“You do not walk away from me,” Mary said as she slammed the door behind her.

He could see how the sea water had clung to her hair and clothes, revealing her small shape.  As she laid a hand on his arm to stop his forward progress, he inhaled sharply, not used to her touching him unless they were sparring. 

“Is this the plan? Because if it is, then we will die,” she kept going, not noticing that he had stopped what he was doing and stared back.

She gripped his bicep tightly, but not enough where he couldn’t get away from her. He’d built much more muscle in the last few months than he ever did doing his occasional boxing matches back in London. Her warm hand seared him, branding him.

“You need to let go,” Sherlock told her.

“You need to listen to me.”

“Let go.”

“Make me.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, wondering if he was up for the challenge. Instead of taking her down to the floor in triumph, he took his free right hand and placed it over hers.

“This is not solving anything.”

“I don’t want to die,” she whispered out, tears forming in her eyes.

Gripping her hand, he laced his own through hers.

“Then don’t.”

“Then help me.”

Eleven months of nothing but getting better.  His mind was ready to burst without enough stimulation to keep it busy.

“I’m trying,” he answered, knowing that he really wasn’t.

“Try harder.”

Instead of letting him go, she pulled his hand to her face, lightly kissing it before unlacing her hand. The kiss was hot and wet, but gentle.  He couldn’t breathe right at that moment. Looking down at where she’d kissed him, his brain shut down for at least a minute or two attempting to compute why she’d done it. While he’d closed his eyes so that he couldn’t see hers filled with tears, her free hand had come up to his cheek, thumb sweeping over his skin.

Her blonde hair was now much longer, curled every which way from their tumble in the sea.  She looked like an avenging sea nymph, bright cheeks and angry eyes.  Looking down at her finally, he saw something else in her eyes, a longing, something he most certainly had never seen in those eyes before.

“Sherlock, I don’t want to fight,” she managed to get out, a small smile breaking out.

It didn’t occur to him until later that not only had he not had much physical contact in the last eleven months, she had mostly none either.  Yanking his head down, she crushed her lips to his, causing their teeth to clank together. She didn’t stop the course that she had set out though, putting pressure until he opened his mouth slightly, letting her tongue in to press against his. The hand that she had on his cheek slid back behind his head while the one that had yanked on his head in the first place carded its way into the short curls at the back of his head. Both of his hands were on the sides of her neck, framing her face with his long fingers, or what was left of them.

Finally wanting to breathe again, Sherlock raised his head slightly. Mary’s lips worked over his jaw and down his neck where she bit, causing him to shudder. Her body was now flush with his, leg working in between his just slightly. His brain was on overdrive, trying to figure out if this was a good idea while his body had ideas of its own.

“Don’t think,” she whispered in his ear. “Just feel.”

The sound of her voice went straight to his groin, making him ache like he never had before.  It was like they were the last two people on Earth with no one else in sight.

“Mary,” he sighed back, pulling her up against him even tighter.

Mary pulled at his clothes, his shirt in the back up and out of the way of her traveling hands.

“What are we…” he started to say, but couldn’t finish as her fingers grazed his front.

“Shhh,” she chided him as she ground her front against his.

“I don’t…Molly.”

And with that, she pushed him so hard he collided with the dining table, his lower back connecting with the sharp edge.

“You bastard.  You utter bastard. Don’t you dare. You held her at arm’s length.  You couldn’t even… Just don’t.”

“John.”

“Is gone,” she yelled back.  “So is Molly. You hadn’t even touched her.”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide, knowing where this might lead.

“You’re wrong,” he blurted out, knowing he’d pay for it later on in his head.

“What?”

“She…after Eurus. We were supposed to go on an honest to goodness date, the day after.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Instead of rejecting Mary, pushing her away like he did everyone else, he rushed over and took her in his arms and hugged her so tight she pushed on him to let up if just a little.

She’d never cried much after, he just realized right then, as he felt the tears flow down her face onto the front of his shirt. Sure, there were a few tears here and there, but no waterworks.  Mary thought she had to be strong for him while he fell apart at the beginning of whatever it was they were doing.

She sobbed and wailed as he held her tight, breath hitching until she quieted.

“I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have,” she said as she hiccupped, trying to control her breathing.

Sherlock didn’t let her go, didn’t let her run this time, like she had before.  His arms tightened around her.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

Mary pulled her head away slightly to look up into his eyes.

“Right. This is me you’re talking to.”

Instead of Mary pulling him down to her level, he picked her up and placed her on the offending dining room table to bring her closer to him.  As her ankles hooked around his thighs, he lowered her, ignoring the fact that it probably wasn’t the most comfortable position to be in for either one of them.

“Fuck, Sherlock. Now,” Mary said as her hands roamed down to his zipper.

Her wet clothes were a bit bothersome to remove, but with her help, the trousers were off her along with his down around his ankles, her cold legs wrapped around him.

“You’re so hot,” she moaned as he slid between her legs.

He had meant to go slow, but with her thrusting hips, he was sheathed quickly in her tight heat, making him groan in pleasure. Bracing his forearm on the side of her to take off his weight as he moved, he watched as she arched off the table, orgasm already overtaking her within seconds. There was no way he’d survive much longer, so he pushed forward, moving the table with each pump of his hips.  His brain whited out for a moment once he peaked, Mary writhing below him, head still thrown back.  Burying his face in her neck, he waited until she came down before moving off of her.

“Lord, you are a furnace,” she told him as stroked her hands through his hair.

“Taking a dip in cold ocean water is not advisable at this time of the year.”

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

“Asswipe.”

Sherlock opened and closed his mouth as he looked down at her grinning up at him.

“I am most certainly going to lose this contest, aren’t I?”

“If you know what’s good for you.”

And he did.


End file.
